Tristan and Isolde
by Zaadi
Summary: During Camelot's annual tournament, the visiting King Mark seeks a bodyguard for his wife, Isolde. Meanwhile, a threat from Mark's realm heads toward Camelot.
1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:** These stories I am writing take place post-series-two of the BBC's _Merlin_, and will become alternative universe once third series starts. This is technically the second story, which is how Morgana's back in Camelot.

* * *

XIXIXIXIX

* * *

**Tristan and Isolde**

Uther was on the edge of his seat. Sword met armor and Uther grimaced with the blow, smiling at the hit. In the arena before him, two knights squared off. Each had struck, blocked, swung their swords, hit their targets, and so far, neither had the upper hand. Uther leaned back as the knights circled each other, faceless behind their helmets. One lunged, the other dodged, Uther shifted forward—he was on the edge of his seat.

"I think you miss being in the arena," said King Mark beside him.

"Not a bit of it—oohh," Uther sucked air in through his teeth, his eyes alight.

One knight hit the ground. The other removed his helmet and looked around at the crowd, sweat running into his green eyes, down his cheeks. His auburn hair was plastered to his head and his lips parted as he panted for breath. Women within the crowd glanced at one another as they clapped and cheered. The knight bowed to Uther, bowed his head to Mark and stared at the lady beside him—Mark's brand-new bride, Isolde, beautiful, vibrant in her soft green gown. He bowed low to her. When he rose, he stole one last look.

Isolde was on the edge of her seat.

"I do believe you're beginning to enjoy yourself, my love." King Mark studied her face.

"Perhaps there is something in all this non-fatal violence, after all. My love." Isolde gave Mark a fleeting smile, and glanced at the back of the knight leaving the arena. "Besides, that one looked familiar—I think I've met him before."

Outside by the tents, a servant ran to help the knight, Tristan, remove his armor. Tristan rotated his shoulders and flexed his fingers—testing his muscles and the freedom of the fresh air against his sweat-laden shirt. A few tents away, Merlin handed Arthur his sword and helmet, and trailed after as Arthur entered the arena to a resounding burst of applause.

Tristan, meanwhile, picked up a small harp and plucked a few strings. He closed his eyes, listening to each sound. He started up a tune, and immersed himself in the music, oblivious to the tournament in which he was entered. Around him, squires and servants and ten-year-old boys ran past. They carried equipment, or water, or, in the case of the boys, gossip and news—they ran through the assembly of tents and in-and-out of the arena, gathering the information of who had won against whom, who was injured, and who simply seemed to be off his game. They took these precious goods to the taverns where wagers had been placed; they ran it to the castle, to the servants who had to work; some ran it to their parents; some ran it back to the tents where the yet-to-compete paid well for inside information. The entire city of Camelot was abuzz.

Above this ado, Morgana stared, standing at a window of her chambers. She looked not upon the peasants and knights and townsfolk of Camelot, but at a cat, mangy and orange, that had a sparrow trapped between two barrels and a bushel of hay. The sparrow hopped back and forth within its confines, while the cat crouched, ready to pounce. Neither sparrow nor cat cared a whit for the contest consuming the city around them—they had their own competition, with a prize far more valuable than gold.

But the city was obsessed, possessed by the prowess of swords on display. A cart drew up full of barrels of wine, blocking the cat and sparrow from Morgana's view. She turned around, searching her chambers. Her bed was unmade and her breakfast uneaten; her wardrobe was opened, with dresses scattered about; several books were randomly placed—one even on the floor. She leaned against the wall and turned her head back toward the window to gaze outside again. She knew the scene was different—that different people were passing by, that there were two dogs that hadn't been there before, that various children were running around. And yet—it was the same view she'd watched all her life.

Her fist clenched tighter, her grip rumpling the small strip of parchment in her hand even more. She opened it up again: _I'm sorry_, scrawled in Morgause's careful calligraphy.

The door opened. Morgana squeezed the paper back into her fist.

"You're missing the tournament." Gwen's face was flushed—all smiles and out-of-breath blushes.

"How is it?"

"Arthur just won his first round." Gwen approached the bed, reaching for the blankets.

"I'm sure he did." Morgana still looked out the window.

"Are you sure you won't come down?" Gwen straightened up from the bed and turned to Morgana, her expression dulling into concern.

"I'm just not feeling well today."

"And you don't want me to get Gaius?" Gwen took a few steps forward.

Morgana turned around to face Gwen, flashing a brief smile. "I'll be okay. I promise." She watched Gwen finish with the bed, crushing the note deeper into her hands.

* * *

Lancelot paused at the gates of Camelot, gazing up at the grand arches and taking a deep breath of air. He stepped across the threshold into the city. As he meandered through the streets of the lower town, he caught snatches of tournament news. And something about the price of bread—but most of the words trilling through excited mouths were about who had beaten whom and the contestants of the next match. Thus Lancelot discovered that Arthur had won his first round—in less than a minute—a fact that overshadowed the actual victory, which as far as the people of Camelot were concerned was old news before it had occurred.

Lancelot made his way up the steps into the stands of the arena where he found a seat. All eyes were peeled on the fighters, and Lancelot, too, admired the skill on display. He knew he could defeat them both, but entry into the competition was reserved for those of noble blood, a fact of life he had come to accept. He cast his eyes over the crowd, settling on the king's pavilion where Uther sat with King Mark. Uther bounced around in his chair like a giddy child, enthralled by the fight. Mark, on the other hand, observed with detachment—Lancelot watched him, trying to gauge the criteria by which Mark was clearly assessing the fighters. Mark leaned back in his seat, a hand to his chin. He was several years younger than Uther, and his black hair was streaked with silver. His dark blue eyes matched his attire and scrutinized each knight. Lancelot looked again to the fighters, one victorious, one unconscious, and concluded that Mark was waiting.

Beside Mark sat a woman dressed in soft green, her hair tangled by an expert on top of her head, a few calculated wisps dangling in front of sculpted cheekbones. Her lips also seemed the work of a dreaming artist. Lancelot knew she was Isolde, rumored far and wide to be the most beautiful woman in the land, a beauty attested and defended even by those who had never laid eyes upon her. Next to Isolde sat a woman wearing white, whose braided brown hair circled her head. Lancelot's eyes stopped long enough to acknowledge each woman's presence, and then moved along. He glanced over the crowd surrounding Uther, seeking.

Guinevere.

She sat on the other side of Uther wearing a yellow bodice with quilted flowers, thin laces tied into a bow upon her breast, the violet fabric of her dress caressing her skin as she clapped her hands. Her face was radiant, and her dark hair fell in tight circlets about her shoulders. Lancelot stared at her. She smiled at a successful dodge and winced at a particularly hard hit, as if taken aback by the force that could be involved in a tournament. Between the matches, she glanced at the empty seat next to her, and for a brief instant it occurred to Lancelot that he had not seen the Lady Morgana.

The day's matches ended before the sun had set low enough to assault Uther's eyes, though it had set enough to cast long shadows throughout the stadium. In a variegated mix of exhaustion, excitement and diligence, the people rose to return to their duties. Lancelot stayed seated as the crowd flowed around him, watching the deserted arena and the seats abandoned by the royal party.

* * *

"STEADY!"

The crashing waves against the cliff drowned out the man's words. Before him, a line of soldiers—flame-lit arrows in their bows—aimed at the on-coming giants. Behind him, a field of tents where other knights were suiting up and artisans were crouching. The twilight obscured the two giants so that their shadows blended with the stones of the castle ruins behind them. They trudged toward the men, immense axes in hand.

"STEADY!"

* * *

Merlin's face was buried behind an armload of armor as he kicked the door closed behind him. He heard the slam echo through the chambers he and Gaius shared.

"Do you need any help?" Lancelot stood just inside the doorway.

Merlin dropped Arthur's armor and spun around.

"Lancelot! What are you doing here?"

"I came to see the tournament." Lancelot bent down to retrieve the armor, but Merlin grabbed it first.

"Really?" Merlin dumped the armor in his own room. "Just to see a tournament?"

"No. I . . . was also hoping to . . . offer my services to King Mark. Where's Gaius?" Lancelot glanced around the room, scattered about with the physician's equipment and supplies.

"At the feast. Have you eaten—I could probably get you in."

"I think I'd be out of place." Lancelot nudged the apparatus on the table.

"I thought you wanted to speak to Mark. Why would he need your services?"

"I heard a rumor that Mark was looking for a bodyguard for Queen Isolde."

"Really? I hadn't heard anything." Merlin looked sideways at Lancelot, "why?"

"It seems there have been threats on her life—or his—or he just wants to have one around—I'm not quite clear on the details." Lancelot sat down, sighing heavily and looking to the ceiling. "I shouldn't be here."

"Lancelot, you're the best fighter I've ever seen. If Mark needs a bodyguard, he'd be an idiot not to take you on." Merlin sat down across from Lancelot. "Or is there another reason you think you shouldn't be here?"

Lancelot didn't respond for several minutes, until finally, "how's Arthur?"

"He's Arthur."

"Won't he wonder where you are?"

"No. No, I'm supposed to be polishing his armor and sharpening his sword and shining his boots."

Lancelot bobbed his head. "I shouldn't keep you," he stood.

"You don't seem to want anyone to know you're in town," Merlin looked up from his seat.

"There's no point in it—I won't be here that long."

"Just long enough to see if Mark really is looking for a bodyguard?"

Lancelot nodded and stared at the door.

"Then stay here—I'll get us something to eat."

* * *

"Is it a nice view?" Isolde's maid turned over the covers on the bed.

"It's a big city." Isolde stared out into the night.

"Well, enjoy it now—this will be our last chance to experience four walls and a roof for a while."

"Don't like tent cities?" Isolde smiled and turned around.

"I prefer more solid abodes," she winked at Isolde.

"Brangene," Isolde's face sobered, "do you think I did the right thing?"

"By marrying Mark?" Brangene shrugged. "He's a fairly powerful king—it's a good match."

"Yes," Isolde turned back to the window, "it will be useful to both our kingdoms." She stared out into the night, while below her in the street, a small group of young men passed by, laughing. One of them slowed his gait, staring at her figure in the window, until a voice called _Tristan, come on_, and he hurried to rejoin his friends.

* * *

A knock sounded on Morgana's door.

"I'm bored." Isolde stood with her hands clasped in front of her, long pink sleeves draping down her arms.

"Is Mark not available?" Morgana looked at Isolde's immaculate hair and felt her own falling over half her face and down her shoulders as she leaned against the door.

"That's not what I mean. Everyone's caught up in the tournament, and whenever the conversation turns to something else, it's old glories and days gone by. I haven't even been given a proper tour of Camelot."

"I'm sure something can be arranged."

"Are you busy?" Isolde peered around Morgana into her chambers.

"No. But you shouldn't miss the tournament."

"I sat there all morning—my maid's there now to keep me appraised if anything spectacular happens. I could really use a . . . lady's perspective?" Isolde shifted on her feet.

Morgana turned to glance around her chambers, which struck her as somehow vacant despite all the furnishing, the trappings. She smiled and stepped into the hallway.

"Shall we start in the royal gardens?" she said.

They stayed there the rest of the day, wandering among the flowers. With the encroaching twilight, they were espied by Uther from a high window in the castle. Morgana, her black hair tangled and windswept, her green dress mixing with the flora, was laughing.

"This is the first time I've seen Morgana smile in weeks," he said as Mark walked up behind him. "Your young bride is quite a winning creature."

"Indeed she is." Mark gazed out at the two women. "I take it the Lady Morgana will be dining with us tonight, then?"

The feasts thrown by Uther when he hosted tournaments were among the largest and most celebrated in the land. Every contestant was invited to the table, and people caroused long into the night—a fact cited by many a loser the following day. Upon the table were the choicest meats, fruits, bread and wine. At its head sat Uther, in his finest regalia. Mark and Isolde sat on one side of him, while Morgana took the place between Arthur and his father.

Isolde rolled her eyes at Morgana from behind the rim of her goblet.

"Isolde tells me you're rebuilding Tintagel," Morgana said to Mark, interrupting talk of the tournament and bygone battles.

"As it stands now, it's nothing but ruins," Mark replied. "But it's a well fortified location—"

"On the sea," Isolde recited.

"Across the sea, my love," Mark laid his hand on Isolde's, "from your father in Ireland."

Isolde smiled at Mark, and then turned to Morgana. "Your family once lived there, did it not? Tintagel, I mean?"

"Morgana was born in Camelot," Uther said as Morgana looked at him, somewhat confused. "But yes, Tintagel and the surrounding lands once belonged to her father, Gorlois." He sipped his wine.

"What happened?" Morgana put down her fork.

"Sorcerers destroyed it."

"Magic?" Morgana's eyes narrowed.

"It was razed to the ground—how else can you explain it?" Uther met her gaze.

"Isn't it also supposed to be cursed?" Isolde said.

"Superstitious people believe anything," Mark said, chewing his meat.

Morgana looked at Isolde, a question in her eyes.

"Many people fled to our lands," Isolde said.

"Across the sea to Ireland?" Morgana asked.

Isolde nodded. "I remember stories as a child of a terrible battle—"

"It was a massacre." Uther stole a subtle glance at Gaius listening next to Isolde.

"—and of Cursed Tintagel Across the Sea. Sailors would even change their routes to avoid coming within sight of it. But those are probably just stories," she said to her food.

"Just stories is exactly what they are, my love." Mark cupped Isolde's chin.

"Who was it that destroyed the castle?" Morgana asked.

"I told you, sorcerers," Uther put his goblet down on the table, hard.

"What was the purpose behind the attack?" Arthur said, startling the kings—they'd thought him conversing with the knights on his other side. Tristan, sitting next to Gaius, leaned forward, also intent on the story of Tintagel's destruction.

"We never found out," Gaius said.

"More than likely it was some rival lord who wanted Gorlois's lands," Mark waved his hands impatiently. "Who unintentionally destroyed his prize."

"If there's a rival for the land, then perhaps you should be careful, my love." Isolde glanced at Morgana as she spoke, nearly winking through her demonstration of concern.

"Is that why you're looking for a bodyguard?" Arthur asked.

"What?" Isolde glanced around the table. "What are you talking about?"

"I heard a rumor," Arthur said as Mark glared at him.

"It occurred to me, my love," Mark caressed Isolde's cheek with his finger, "that until our walls are well-fortified, it might be wise to have extra protection. If some knight happens to impress me."

By this time, the table had fallen silent, and every face gazed forward. Every eye sought King Mark, every ear clung to his words. A murmur started as the news began to spread that the prize for this particular tournament was not just a chest filled with gold, but a commission to guard the most beautiful woman in the land.

"Well, it seems you're committed now," Uther said to Mark before taking a drink of wine.

* * *

One giant dangled a man between its two hands. The other watched as the man twisted and wrenched before his companion's bushy eyebrows.

"Ki—King Mark—" the man screamed without finishing his sentence. The second giant signaled the first to lighten his grip.

"Camelot," the man panted. "King Mark is in Camelot."

The giant dropped him—a squishy crack as the man hit the ground. An arrow pierced the giant's hand where the man had been. The two giants turned, met by a volley of arrows and spears, and a charge of men, swords held high.

The two giants grabbed their axes—surprised, but not unready.

* * *

The next day of the tournament was greeted by first, Tristan singing a song of unrequited love as the contestants made their way to their tents. Merlin watched Tristan, who once again ignored his surroundings. Finished with one song, Tristan immediately segued into the next, while a servant stood impatiently by, holding his armor.

"I can't tell if he's sad or happy," Merlin said.

"Can you tell if he's interested in this tournament or not?" Arthur said.

As Tristan continued playing, his song sunk beneath the wave of rumor and gossip saturating Camelot: who would win the job of protecting the incomparable Isolde? As a prize, it was novel, which alone was enough to pique the town's interest—but as an event in and of itself, it was inspiring. _Prince Arthur won't be leaving_, said a maid in a tavern. _You mean, Mark's too smart to have such a pretty man spend so much time alone with his pretty wife,_ smirked her friend. _What if Prince Arthur doesn't win?_ ventured a third. _Who says the Prince wants the job?_ a stable boy said. _Who says any of them want the job? Does the winner of the tournament have to go?_—the debate echoed in every stone of every wall, and the people thronged to the arena. It was standing room only.

The third prologue to the day's matches occurred in the collective of tents. Lancelot—whom everyone assumed was a squire or servant—bumped into a knight by the name of Sir Tarquin. Tarquin made to slap him with the back of his hand, but Lancelot caught his wrist.

"I apologized," Lancelot chided, releasing Tarquin's hand.

"If you knew how to watch where you were going, you wouldn't have bothered me in the first place." Tarquin took a step toward Lancelot, who glanced at the growing crowd of onlookers. "I think you need to be taught a lesson," Tarquin continued.

He took a swing at Lancelot, which Lancelot lithely dodged. Tarquin snorted, sneered, and threw another punch at Lancelot, and again hit only air. Around the two gaped a bona fide audience of fellow knights, squires and servants engrossed in this skirmish ere the match—this fight before the fight. Even Tristan had abandoned his harp to watch Tarquin lunge and throw himself at Lancelot, who expertly evaded and pushed Sir Tarquin tripping to the ground.

"What is going on here?" Arthur's voice rang out above the tents. Tarquin picked himself up off the ground, and the circle of watchers parted.

Arthur walked a few steps forward, into the thwarted melee. Merlin stood behind. Arthur's face was hard as he glared around at everyone present.

"Lancelot?" his features softened, surprised.

Lancelot bowed his head.

"This man is known to you?" Sir Tarquin said.

Arthur turned to him. "Is there a problem?"

"He insulted me, sire."

"Then by all means keep fighting him," Arthur looked at Lancelot, protected only by his tunic and fists, standing next to the fully-armored and armed Sir Tarquin. "He'll insult you some more."

A chuckle rippled through the gathered crowd, and Tarquin reddened.

"There is no honor to be gained in petty quarrels," Arthur announced, "the tournament is over there." He pointed to the arena and turned back to Tarquin. "And I believe you fight first today—why would you want to tire yourself out?"

"It seems my opponent isn't going to grace me with his presence," Tarquin glared at Tristan. "Or is there another reason you haven't readied yourself yet?"

"It seems I don't need to," Tristan kept his gaze locked on Tarquin, who tensed, jaw tight.

"Enough!" Arthur said, glaring as the crowd dispersed. He hooked his arm around Lancelot's neck and led him to his own tent, Merlin following beside.

Of course, by the time Tristan suited up, and all salutations and openings-of-ceremonies had been conducted, the incident at the tents had flown around the entire stadium.

The spectators were on the edges of their seats.

* * *

"Arthur could probably talk to Mark for you." Merlin stood beside Lancelot just inside the entrance to the arena as they watched Arthur in combat against a knight named Sir Robert.

"So you keep telling me." Lancelot's eyes were glued to Arthur.

"Lancelot, what's wrong?"

"What?" Lancelot cocked his head to the side, his attention still on Arthur and the fight.

"You're acting . . . weird." Merlin stared at Lancelot. Sir Robert went down, but Merlin still waited for a response from Lancelot—who fell into step beside Arthur when the Prince walked by.

"I could talk to Mark for you." Arthur threw his helmet off as soon as he entered his tent—Merlin dived forward to catch it.

"I doubt I'll get an audience with him otherwise." Lancelot sighed and leaned against a small table that had a ewer of water on it.

"I could also talk to my father," Arthur said slowly as Merlin lifted the hauberk of his shoulders. He rolled his head around, cracking his neck. Merlin, at Arthur's back, looked to Lancelot.

"He didn't seem very receptive last time." Lancelot stared at the grass.

"You didn't let me try," Arthur glared at Lancelot, sweat still running down his face.

"I told you, I need to—"

"Prove yourself? As a mercenary?"

Lancelot lifted his head, and Arthur sat down in a nearby chair.

"You should be out there," he said. "You're as good as—better than—any of them."

"The First Code of Camelot . . ." Lancelot quoted.

"Is stupid." Arthur leaned his elbows on his knees and stared at his hands. "A wealthy family doesn't make you noble. _I'd _rather have skilled, honest fighters." He looked up at Lancelot.

Lancelot said nothing. Merlin hovered over Arthur's armor with a cloth, paused in his polishing.

"You're the most honorable knight I've ever met, Lancelot," Arthur said.

"I'm not a knight, sire."

"You belong—"

"Are you decent?" Gwen's voice chimed from outside the tent, interrupting Arthur. Not waiting, she pulled back the flaps, entering with a cup in her hand. "I wanted to con—"

Lancelot straightened up from the table—he and Gwen stared at each other.

"To congratulate you." She turned her shoulders to Arthur, though her eyes remained on Lancelot. "And—to bring you some water." She handed the cup to Arthur, who nodded his head in thanks, smiled and drank it down.

Merlin glanced from Gwen to Lancelot, who finally looked away from each other.

"How long has Lancelot been in Camelot?" Gwen said to Arthur.

"Since two days ago," Merlin said. Both Gwen and Arthur seemed taken aback—Lancelot shot him a look.

"He's here to offer his services to Mark," said Arthur.

"Oh," Gwen said, turning to Lancelot. Lancelot shifted his weight from foot to foot, and Gwen inventoried the contents of the tent, flitting her eyes from object to object until they rested on Arthur. "I—I just wanted to give you that," she pointed to the empty cup still in Arthur's hand. "And to tell you that Morgana's feeling better—she's watching—was watching—you." Gwen stiffly bowed her head—or curtsied, it was hard to tell.


	2. Chapter 2

"It was a lot more awkward than you'd have thought it would have been." Merlin mindlessly stirred his soup while Gaius searched the rows and piles of books on the shelves.

"Merlin, I don't think you should indulge in idle gossip, especially since it seems you have very little to gossip about." Gaius opened a book, staring down his nose through his glasses at the page. "If there's some problem, I'm sure Gwen and Arthur can figure it out for themselves."

Merlin let his spoon drop. "What are you doing?"

"I thought I heard someone chanting earlier—"

"Sir Tristan, probably."

Gaius glared at Merlin. "—but he didn't have much of a tune, and I couldn't figure out where it was coming from. Something about it . . ." Gaius stared off into the space in front of him.

"You think someone was performing magic?"

"As stupid as it would be to do," Gaius selected another book. "Tournaments often bring out stupidity when the desire to win is strong enough. And there's certainly been added incentive in this one." He tilted the book toward a candle, trying to get better light. He finally sighed and gave up, tossing the book to an empty spot on the shelf.

The following morning, every knight entered in the tournament was ill—including the knights who'd already been defeated and thereby disqualified.

Arthur moaned in his bed, curled into the fetal position, sweating and barely conscious.

"Who could have done this?" Uther leaned against a bedpost, watching his son.

"I'm looking into it now, sire. As far as I can tell, only fighters in the tournament are affected."

"Do you suspect magic?"

"It's still possible an ordinary poison was used."

"Keep me informed," Uther's empty voice said as he sank into a chair, focused only on Arthur.

In the outer corridor, Merlin leaned in toward Gaius. "All the food and water comes from the castle—if this was an ordinary poison, wouldn't more people be affected?"

"Well thankfully, we can worry about how later. If we discover who—" Gaius paused as a servant passed. "Now think, who would want to do this?"

"Only tournament knights are affected, so—somebody in the tournament?"

"Yes, except that _everybody_ in the tournament is sick."

"Maybe he's infected himself to cover his tracks."

"Let's hope so—it would mean this thing isn't fatal. Come on." Gaius pulled Merlin along, visiting each affected man. They interviewed servants and squires, friends, sweethearts—anyone with contact or knowledge of the knight in question. In Sir Tristan's chambers, they found Queen Isolde spooning a broth into Tristan's mouth. Merlin was struck more by the odd smell of the broth then by the fact that a visiting queen was personally seeing to one of the knights. He and Gaius stared for a moment until they were interrupted by the door opening behind them.

"Here you are, my Lady." Isolde's maid entered, followed by Morgana.

"Thank you, Brangene," Isolde said as Brangene placed the bucket of water by the bed, where Tristan was sweating and mumbling.

"What—" Gaius began. Morgana next to him also stared, confused.

"Over two dozen knights are ill—that is a lot for a single physician to handle. I thought I would lend a hand." Isolde turned away from Tristan for a moment.

"You know medicine?" Morgana asked.

"It was either learn that or idleness. I figure it never hurts to know how to heal," she smiled wanly at Morgana before returning her attentions to Tristan. "Do you know the cause—for I have never seen a natural disease like this before." She offered another spoonful of broth to Tristan, but he seemed suddenly repulsed by it, so instead she dipped a cloth into the cold water and applied it to his forehead.

"No—there seems to be no source for it," Gaius said as he began to look around the room.

"Then it must be from an unnatural cause. I already searched—there's nothing here," Isolde caught Gaius's eyes, a sadness reflecting in her own, but her voice determined.

"Uther won't want to hear magic is ruining his party," Merlin said to no one in particular.

Morgana took a step back and turned toward Merlin, her jaw set, her eyes narrowing.

"Well what one wants, and what is, are two different things," Isolde answered Merlin.

"I'm sure Gaius can ascertain the cause," Morgana interjected, stepping forward. "If we can keep the men stable, he can devote his energies to getting rid of it." Morgana stared hard at Gaius, now standing beside Merlin. Gaius nodded and left, Merlin tripping after.

* * *

There were no fires burning at midnight, and no sound but sleep. The half moon vanished behind dark clouds as the two giants approached the village. A road ran straight down the middle, and along this they walked, straddling its girth. Vibrations woke the dogs, setting them howling and growling at the giants, and waking the town. People scrambled out of their homes—a few screamed. The casual swing of the giants' axes rammed into walls, and their mud-caked feet leveled carts and barrels. The villagers watched as the roadside part of their town was crushed by two indifferent behemoths. They listened as the pounding footfalls receded into the night. In the morning, they cursed the damage done by the giants and thanked God that no one had been killed.

* * *

Arthur arched in his bed, twisting, writhing. Gwen tried to push a wet cloth to his forehead, but he groaned and buried the side of his face into the pillow.

She gave up, letting the cloth drop into the bowl in her hands. She sat at Arthur's bedside, watching his pain, knitting her brow and biting her lip. She tried to reach for his hand, but his fingers dug into the mattress. The only thing she could do was straighten the bedsheets around him.

"Am I . . . disrupting?" Islode stood in the doorway holding a tray which contained a bowl of broth, a spoon, a bowl of herbs or powders and two tiny vials. She paused only briefly before approaching Arthur's bed.

Gwen jumped back, startled. "No—the king needed rest—and to deal with some affairs, I think. He didn't want Arthur left alone."

"He didn't want the Prince left alone?" Isolde glanced at Gwen and put her tray down.

"What are you doing?"

"Hopefully keeping this thing at bay so your physician can destroy whatever's causing it." She held the broth beneath Arthur's nostrils, and for a moment he calmed. "Is this fresh water?"

"Yes—no. I'll get you some more."

Isolde called something after her, but Gwen was already out of the room.

At the pump, Lancelot cupped his hand to catch the water, drinking from his palm and splashing his dust-covered face. Gwen stood back, watching, letting him finish. She held a bucket in front of her, both hands wrapped around the handle. When Lancelot turned, his knees slapped the rim and he nearly tripped into her face.

"Gwen!"

"Lancelot." She stepped around him, and placed the bucket beneath the spigot. Lancelot stood watching her. "My back is turned, shouldn't you be disappearing?" she turned her face toward him, her hand paused, the flow of the water halted.

"I'm sorry." Lancelot looked to the ground, to the walls around—the dirt of the city staining the white stones grey.

"Lancelot," she straightened up, "why did you leave?"

"I had to. Once Arthur came . . ." he looked to her, but her face was closed, unreadable.

"And now?" she said.

He met her eyes, taking a step towards her, "Gwen."

"You're just here to guard Queen Isolde."

"If I can—it's honest work, respectable."

Gwen nodded. "Isolde is very beautiful."

"I've seen more beautiful."

They barely heard the woman behind them clear her throat, and she had to do so a second time. Gwen grabbed the half-full bucket and moved out of the way as Brangene stepped past.

Somehow, Lancelot had managed to vanish, and Gwen stared at the people ambling by.

* * *

Sir Roricke looked dead. He wasn't twisting, turning, writhing, moaning, wracked with spasms, or flushed with pain—he was pale, still, a few beads of sweat dripping from his forehead. Gaius checked his pulse. Merlin waited on the opposite side of the bed, apprehensive—behind him, the setting sun shone through the window, throwing diagrams of light onto the floor and bed.

"He mumbled something about a thief." Isolde stood behind Gaius, peering over his shoulder. "I thought he was delusional, but when we couldn't find his squire—"

"We're not quite sure what he looks like," said Sir Lamorack, a broad, ginger-haired knight with pale blue eyes. Like many knights living in Camelot, he had not entered the tournament. "And we can't tell if anything actually has been stolen." He glanced about the room.

Brangene entered, reaching a vial out to Gaius.

"Where was the squire staying?" Gaius uncorked the vial, holding it in front of Roricke's nose.

"Usual place," Lamorack said. "Nobody's seen him since yesterday, though."

"What about his stuff?" Merlin said, also watching for signs of consciousness from Roricke.

"What little he had is gone."

"We need to find him," Gaius said.

"Like I said—"

"Well find out what he looks like—if he's behind this, he's our only chance at a cure."

Isolde, Merlin and Brangene all stared at Gaius. Sir Lamorack merely bowed his head and left the room.

"Is there really—" Isolde stopped as Gaius met her eyes. "Why would someone do this?"

"If we find him, I'll be sure to ask."

* * *

Merlin found Lancelot in one of the taverns of the lower town.

"How's Arthur doing?" Lancelot asked.

"Same as all the other knights." Merlin sat and buried his face in his hands.

"Any news of Sir Roricke's squire?"

"Not yet—Sir Lamorack is interviewing all the servants, but—"

Lancelot nodded. They sat there a moment as the barkeep brought Merlin a mug of ale.

"Did you know that people bet on tournaments?" Lancelot finally said.

"So . . . ?" Merlin wondered where Lancelot was going with this.

"So people don't like to lose their money—they try to get some guarantee."

"How?"

"Information."

"Information? From where?"

Lancelot looked over Merlin's shoulder—a ten-year-old boy had walked up to the table. Lancelot put a coin in the boy's outstretched hand.

* * *

Sir Roricke's squire had stuck around. The guards found him sleeping in the stands of the currently deserted arena. When brought before the King, he spit on Uther's boots and said nothing. A book of magic was found among his possessions—Gaius squirreled it away beneath his robes before anyone noticed.

"This is the spell I heard." Gaius pointed to the page. "I'm sure of it."

Merlin read through the incantation. "Well, it definitely says it causes a plague. Of sorts."

Gaius rolled his eyes. "Keep reading."

"I've read all of it."

"The next page."

"Oh. It's a way to reverse the spell. That's convenient."

"Yes, very. Now, can you do it?"

Moments later, Merlin, Gaius and Lancelot made their way through the deserted tents still standing outside the arena.

"Are you sure we have to do it here?" Merlin asked.

"This is where I heard the spell being cast—do you really want to take any chances? Besides, Lancelot can keep watch." Gaius gave Merlin a look—a silent disapproval that Lancelot knew of his magic. Merlin merely regarded Gaius with wide, innocent eyes and a shrug.

Lancelot circled the spot where they had stopped, peering into the darkness of the overcast night. He signaled to Merlin and Merlin opened the book. Lancelot continued to keep watch while Gaius gazed at Merlin, who recited the reversal, eyes glowing gold.

* * *

A broad river, tumultuous—a torrent.

The giants paused on one side of it. The river was wider even than their widest step. They would have to jump. They cocked their heads and met each other's eyes. One shrugged. In a synchronized motion, they bent their knees and leaped forward, arcing over the raging waters. They landed on the other side—a ground-shaking thud that scared birds from trees and had animals skittering out of the brush.

The giants walked on.

* * *

Isolde pressed a fresh wet cloth to Tristan's forehead.

Tristan sighed. His eyes fluttered open, and he stared at Isolde silhouetted against the morning light. She smiled.

"Welcome back."

"Surely this is a dream." He gazed at her through half-closed lids, his voice soft, heavy.

Isolde's smile faded, but her cheeks blushed, and she focused on putting the wet cloth back into the bucket of water. They were alone in the room.

"I remember you now," she said, drying her hands.

"Did you forget me?"

The question startled her, and she stared at him for a moment, confused. "You fought with one of my father's knights—was nearly killed by him as I recall—"

"And your champion fights many men, they all become a blur in your eyes," Tristan nodded vaguely, his face turned upwards, his focus inwards.

"Well, not quite a blur, it seems." The corners of her mouth lifted in the beginnings of a smile as Tristan again turned his head to look at her.

Silently, Tristan reached his hand towards hers.

"Well," she said standing—Tristan couldn't tell if she had noticed his advance or not—she smoothed her dress with both her hands, "I should see if Gaius, the court physician, needs any help seeing to the men. You and your fellow competitors gave everyone quite a scare."

"Thank you," Tristan called when she reached the doorway.

She turned briefly. "I'm really glad you're all right."

* * *

Uther pronounced death on Sir Roricke's squire, and the festivities of the tournament continued.

"Nothing tops off revelry like an execution," Merlin said as he placed dinner in front of Arthur. They were in Arthur's chambers, and the night peered in through the windows. Outside, a few celebrations had recommenced once word got out that all the men were healthy, and that the matches would resume on the morrow.

"He did try to poison several dozen men." Arthur picked up his spoon and stared at the bowl.

"Yeah, but we still don't know why."

"Probably retaliation for his master losing." Arthur still looked at his bowl.

"But why spit on your father? Has he still not said anything?"

"Not a word." Arthur dropped his spoon into the soup and leaned back in his chair. "And Sir Roricke swears he had nothing to do with it—he says his squire was new, that he'd never met him until the day he left for Camelot."

Merlin raised his eyebrows, but turned away. "Do we at least know his name?" he said.

"According to Roricke, he called himself Nathaniel. Maybe he just wanted to humiliate my father and spoil the games."

"Seems kind of sad." Merlin threw another log onto the fire, watching it slowly start to burn.

"What does?" Arthur picked up his spoon again, stirring figure eights inside his bowl.

"Well, he hates your father—clearly—but all it amounted to was a pointless interruption. I mean do you think he planned everything, or was it a spur of the moment thing when Roricke lost?"

"A 'pointless interruption'? I'm glad to hear you care so much about us."

A short, quiet tapping came from the door, followed by a louder, more assertive knock. Merlin had to postpone his retort in order to admit Lancelot.

"Lancelot," Arthur rose from his seat.

"Prince Arthur," Lancelot bowed his head, glancing around the chambers. "I came to see that you were all right—it was getting hard to sort out the rumors."

"Rumors? That I'm not all right?"

"I think someone's just trying to sway the odds to affect the wagers—I'm spoiling your dinner."

"What? No. It's—" Arthur looked again at the bowl of soup, "completely unappetizing."

"You haven't even tasted it," Merlin said.

Arthur ignored him. "Sit, Lancelot, we'll have a drink. I should thank—"

"He said no, didn't he?" Lancelot stayed standing.

Arthur exchanged a glance with Merlin.

"It's alright, sire," Lancelot sighed. "Thank you—for speaking on my behalf—I know I don't—"

"Lancelot, if you start in again about not being worthy, I'm going to hit you." Arthur closed the space between them—Lancelot swayed backwards, as though Arthur really were about to hit him. "Mark's an idiot. You can do better."

"Perhaps. Thank you, sire." Lancelot bowed his head and turned to leave.

"Lancelot." Arthur reseated himself and watched as Lancelot turned back around. Lancelot looked at Arthur—the chair might as well have been a throne—and held his breath.

"Stay in Camelot," Arthur said.

"I can't, Arthur. I'm sorry," he stole a glance at Merlin, "I just can't." He walked out of the room before Arthur could object.

"What was that about?" Arthur rounded on Merlin.

"I don't know," Merlin shrugged. Arthur glared at him, but left it at that.

* * *

Thirty minutes. Tristan and Balan had been in the ring fighting for thirty minutes. Both helmets had fallen off, and sweat was seeping from every pore. Balan was out of breath, but Tristan danced about, calm, as if the match had just begun, though the wet hair hugging his face and head belied it. The audience—hushed bodies leaning forward. Uther checked a smile, his body tense, his eyes thrilled. Mark had his hands in a pyramid before his chest, his demeanor as calm and detached as Tristan's. Isolde clasped Brangene's hand, catching her breath at every thrust by Balan. Morgana watched with interest, sitting beside Uther, pretending he wasn't sitting beside her. Gwen held a white kerchief in her hands, clenching it in front of her mouth with one hand, gripping her seat with the other, and biting her lip.

The match would determine who would go on to face Prince Arthur—winning, perhaps, both gold and a Queen.

At the contestants' entrance, Lancelot was also watching. He studied Tristan. He studied Balan. He gripped the corner of the wall, his body tense, involved—he might have been on the edge of his seat. These were the challengers for the job he had already been denied. And he was no longer so certain that he could have defeated them in a fair contest. At least not Tristan, who still fought with ease—Balan was clearly tired, weary, starting to make mistakes.

Balan made one last lunge, swinging. Tristan dodged the lunge, but didn't turn aside from the sword—it crashed into the side of his body. Balan seized the opportunity, rolling on top of Tristan to deliver the winning blow.

Lancelot sucked in his breath as Balan's gloved hand met Tristan's bare face. The crowd cheered—a standing ovation, in fact.

"You can't be serious," said an incredulous voice near Lancelot's ear.

Lancelot spun his head around—Arthur was standing next to him, out of armor, his hair and shirt drying of sweat.

"Arthur—how long—"

Knights passed by carrying the unconscious Tristan. Arthur sighed and patted Lancelot on the back of the shoulder, glancing after Tristan. His hand falling from Lancelot, Arthur walked back to his tent, taking one last look in Tristan's direction. Lancelot turned back toward the arena where Balan was still panting and bathing in his victory. Uther clapped his hands, a look of congratulations, of appreciation, of warning in his eyes. Mark eyed Balan up and down, contemplating. Queen Isolde smiled and clapped, but seemed disappointed. The Lady Morgana looked suddenly bored, and Gwen beside her—

Was staring at Lancelot.

He stared back into her eyes across Balan's bowing body, and they continued staring as the crowd rose, dismissed by Uther's exit—though eventually they lost sight of each other in the throng.

"You coming, Gwen?" Morgana said as Gwen tried to stare through the people.

Once again, Lancelot was gone.

* * *

Tristan took up his harp. He sat by his tent acting for all the world like a minstrel. He plucked a careless string or two, but this time, he observed the goings on around him. His defeat did not show in his demeanor, his hands, his eyes—he looked fresh, as if he truly was a bard passing through town.

The man—the Prince's friend—Lancelot strode by. Hearing the music, Lancelot looked Tristan's way. Tristan bowed his head in acknowledgment, Lancelot bowed his in return, and then ran to catch up with the Prince's servant.

A woman wandered past as well—this was not strange, several women often made their way among the tents—but Tristan thought he recognized this one as the Lady Morgana's maid. At least she was far better dressed than the average servant, as the Lady Morgana's maid was—almost as well dressed as Queen Isolde's maid, in fact, although it might have been Brangene's natural beauty that gave her the appearance of elegance and not her wardrobe. But this woman was not Brangene—and she entered the Prince's tent. She stayed there long enough that Tristan almost forgot about her.

She emerged from the tent as Lancelot walked up—they shuffled about awkwardly, and the woman responded to some comment from within. When the two finally sorted themselves out, and she walked away, their eyes locked together until she disappeared, and his eyes lingered on her vanished form. It was a look Tristan's heart would have recognized anywhere.

A look that also had not gone unnoticed by Prince Arthur.


	3. Chapter 3

"You're leaving already?" Merlin noted Lancelot donning his gear. "The tournament's not even over yet." Merlin also noted how little Lancelot carried.

"There's no point in staying—there's nothing for me here."

"If you say so."

They stood inside Merlin's room, the tiny chamber tucked at the end of the larger room of the court physician. Merlin watched as Lancelot slowly double-checked his meager possessions.

"They seem happy. Together."

Merlin nodded vaguely, not really responding.

"I won't destroy that."

"You won't destroy what?" Arthur stood in the doorway. He looked from one man to the other, but got no elaboration. "You think you staying in Camelot would cause problems? How?"

"Arthur—" Lancelot started.

"How would your presence cause problems?" There was an edge growing in Arthur's voice and Merlin moved closer to him. "_Answer me_."

Lancelot looked away. Arthur moved up alongside him, Merlin tensed, watching.

"_Say it,_" Arthur hissed in Lancelot's ear.

"I won't come between you."

"Come between whom?" Arthur circled Lancelot like he was interrogating a prisoner.

"You and Guinevere," Lancelot finally stated quietly.

"And if you stay, you think you will? How?"

"I've made my decision." Lancelot turned, speaking closely, face to face with Arthur.

"But it's not _your decision_ to make, is it, Lancelot? It's _Guinevere's_. And you think she'd choose—"

Arthur's voice choked and he twisted his head away—and the door of the main room shut loudly—Merlin and Lancelot tried to glance past Arthur, but Arthur recovered his focus, staring them down. He leaned forward in toward Lancelot.

"You are staying. If I have to put you in a cell." His voice was low, intense, almost intimate as he locked his eyes on Lancelot's. He turned and walked out of the room, barely acknowledging Gaius, who looked to Merlin, a question on his face. Merlin shook his head.

Arthur, meanwhile, headed to Gwen's house. He stood outside it, pacing, watching, waiting. He knew she was inside. Finally he knocked.

"Arthur!" She cleared her throat, "my Lord."

"I've asked Lancelot to stay in Camelot." He studied her face, hoping to interpret her reaction—she seemed surprised, and—threatened? Panicked? Excited?

"Oh," was all she said.

"I just wondered if you had any opinion about it. About him."

"Why would I have any opinion?" she turned around, implicitly inviting him in.

"You have no opinion?" Arthur followed her in. "You two seemed to have been . . . close. From what little you've seen of him. Or what little _I've_ seen of him—you haven't been hearing from him, have you?"

"What are you suggesting?" She turned briefly to look at him then dealt with some sewing on her table.

"Well, you gave him his armor, didn't you? And you did seem very appreciative when he rescued you."

"Why shouldn't I have been? You wouldn't have come if Morgana hadn't told you to!"

"You know that's not true!"

"It's what _you_ said."

"You and Lancelot couldn't keep your hands off of each other!—what was I supposed to say?"

Gwen stuck a needle in her mouth, fixing her focus on some stitch.

"Would you like it if he stayed?"

"He won't stay."

"Not even if you asked him to?"

She snorted.

"I've asked him to—if he does—?"

Gwen stopped, her fingers, her arms, even her breath, hovering.

"What would happen if Lancelot stayed, Guinevere?" Arthur took a step toward her.

"Lancelot leaves! That's all he does—fly from one place to the next." There was a tear in her eye—Arthur watched it fall.

"You know, Gwen," he said after a moment, "you have control over things—you act like you don't, like no matter what the situation, there's nothing you can do about it, like you can't even speak up—but you can. And this is your heart we're talking about, which means it's your choice."

Gwen said nothing—she sat listening, trying to turn her head away.

"And clearly you've made it." He turned, shutting the door hard as he left—she stayed sitting, her sewing suspended at her breast.

* * *

The entire stadium was on its feet as Arthur stood over the defeated Sir Balan. Arthur peeled off his helmet, inhaling the fresh air, letting the breeze graze his sweat. He turned in a circle, taking in the crowd, before finally smiling to himself. Uther, too, was standing applauding, pride in his eyes leaking through his reserved mien. Arthur bowed before him, acknowledging both King Mark and Queen Isolde as he exited the arena.

Lancelot was waiting in the entrance instead of Merlin. He lowered his head, but Arthur strode by, brushing against Lancelot as if he were a stranger. With quick, curt steps, he made his way to the tents—but he did not head for his own. He detoured, marching straight towards Tristan, who sat plying his harp.

"You owe me." Arthur began to remove his armor.

"I don't understand." Tristan put down his harp and stood.

"You should have been in there today." Arthur flung away his chainmail. "You owe me." A crowd was gathering. Arthur picked up his sword and threw it at Tristan, who caught the hilt—Arthur retrieved another.

The small group of spectators stood back. Lancelot watched from the background, noting that Merlin, running up from Arthur's tent, seemed concerned—they shared a glance and heard the clang of sword against sword as Arthur launched an assault on Tristan.

Lancelot made his way around to Merlin. "Should we do something?" he said.

Merlin shrugged. "Didn't he do this to you? Which is not to say he does this a lot," Merlin noted the worry on Lancelot's face.

"This is my fault."

"It's not. Even I could see Tristan should have beaten Balan."

"Balan's a good fighter," Lancelot said.

"And Tristan's better!" Arthur shouted, deflecting a thrust.

Merlin and Lancelot exchanged looks.

Tristan punched Arthur, and Arthur reeled, dodging the next swing of Tristan's sword. He twisted, elbowing Tristan in the gut, and hooking his feet to send him flat on his back. Tristan kept grip of his sword and flicked it in front of his chest to clash against Arthur's sword. Arthur laughed and kicked Tristan's hand. Tristan kept a hold of the sword still, so Arthur stepped on his wrist. He placed his other foot on Tristan's shoulder and leaned down to wrench the sword from Tristan's determined grip.

"That's better," he said softly to Tristan's face, helping him up. "Don't make me do this again."

* * *

"It seems Sir Balan will be guarding you," Morgana said to Isolde as they walked through the half-dismantled gathering of tents.

"Perhaps." Isolde looked around at the tents, smelling, breathing them in. She watched servants scramble in and out. "But it's my person, surely I get some say in who guards me." She stared hard at the area where Tristan's tent stood empty, where the Prince had a few hours prior challenged the knight for some unknown reason—well, a reason knowable to those who asked, but many people preferred a mystery and gossip.

"Good luck getting Mark to hear you out—in my experience kings care only for their own advice." Morgana's eyes grew distant, almost sad. Behind the two trailed Gwen and Brangene, silent shadows of their mistresses, listening, but not listening.

Isolde stole a sideways glance at Morgana. "My life is my own, not my husband's—I chose to marry him, and I will not be disregarded. If I have to make myself heard, I will."

"You married Mark freely?" A note of incredulity tinged her voice, but her face was still sad.

"I married him by choice." Isolde's face was set, resigned, determined. "The world isn't simple, my Lady," she opened her mouth as if to say more, but stopped, listening instead to a doleful note carried on the air—she looked around to spot the source.

But Tristan was behind her, sitting on the backside of a cart, watching, playing. It was Brangene who turned around, walking half-backward to meet Tristan's eye before turning her attention forward again, a secret planted within her.

Nor was she alone in her understanding—Lancelot, walking from Arthur's abandoned tent also noted the look in Tristan's eye. Tristan returned the stare—disclosure to musical accompaniment. Lancelot broke the contact, attending instead to the ladies approaching him. He bowed as Isolde and Morgana and Gwen and Brangene passed him—Guinevere stared at him, meeting his raised eyes.

"Oh, just go after him," Brangene whispered to Gwen, a harshness underlying her coax.

Gwen looked sheepishly away, pretending she hadn't heard Brangene, and trying not to glance over her shoulder at Lancelot's retreating form.

Lancelot stopped in front of Tristan, listening for a moment.

"You're an excellent fighter," he finally said.

Tristan nodded his head slightly, acknowledging Lancelot's spoken and unspoken comment.

"You threw the fight because of her, didn't you?" Lancelot said softly, looking in Isolde's direction—the ladies moved along their way.

"What would you know of it?" Tristan's voice became sharp, and he, too, looked in the direction of the receding ladies. "My love is taken, yours is just a pathetic maid you choose to ignore."

Lancelot bristled—if he'd had his sword, he would've drawn it, and Tristan knew it.

"Oh, I see," said Tristan, "you'll fight for her honor but don't honor her enough to fight for her."

"It's not that simple," Lancelot said. "There's someone else's feelings to consider."

"Someone more important than your lady-love?" Tristan sneered. "Like a prince?" He looked up at Lancelot through taunting eyes and continued plucking the strings of his harp.

Lancelot stood taken aback, but conceded. "He can give her everything I cannot."

"You would be Pandarus just so she can wear a finer dress?"

"He deserves her."

"_He_ deserves?" Tristan stopped playing and stared at Lancelot, surprised. "Oh, I'm so sorry, I thought it was the Lady Morgana's maid that you loved—I didn't realize it was actually the prince. That is . . . that is so terribly tragic and forbidden. Good Luck with that."

Lancelot was becoming irked. "She deserves to be happy."

"Happy? She doesn't look at the Prince with the eyes she gives to you." Tristan paused. "Has the maid no say in all of this?"

Lancelot curtailed himself. "I must have misunderstood—"

"Yes you did." Tristan stood, pressing his face close to Lancelot's. "If my lady were as free as yours, I'd serenade her until she told me to leave, and even then I'd be happy she spoke to me at all. It would be her word alone—it is her word alone that commands me. Your situation is nothing like mine."

* * *

Merlin dragged Lancelot into the great hall. The celebration had fully commenced, and throughout, people were laughing, talking, drinking. All were in their finest. Lancelot looked around nervously—a couple of knights spotted him and sneered in his direction before turning their backs. Merlin looked around for Arthur, Lancelot alternately caught and avoided Gwen's eye until she disappeared among the partiers—probably to find Morgana.

But Brangene caught up with her first.

"May I ask you a question?" she slowly led Gwen through the crowd. "If two people are of the same social class, both unmarried, unattached and both interested in each other, why would they pretend that their love is somehow forbidden?"

Gwen narrowed her eyes. "Let me ask you—what kind of person judges strangers as if she were privy to the intimate details of their lives? Excuse me." Gwen turned around, smacking into Lancelot, who spilled his drink all over her.

"Guinevere! I am so sorry."

Merlin handed Lancelot the kerchief from around his neck, and Lancelot tried to daub the liquid from off Gwen's bodice.

Then he realized he was patting, holding, touching Gwen's bodice, and he paused. Their eyes met, and Gwen exhaled the breath she had been holding.

"Mm-hmm," Brangene eyed the couple, putting her hands to her hips and raising her eyebrows when Gwen looked at her.

"I should take care of this," Gwen took Merlin's kerchief from Lancelot's hand, their fingers brushing. She turned and walked out before Lancelot—or Brangene—could say anything. Lancelot glanced at Merlin, then Brangene, then ran after.

"Let me escort you," he said when he caught up with her. "I don't belong in there anyway."

"Lancelot!" she stopped, turning to him. "You're probably the only one who does belong in there."

Lancelot stared at her, lips parted, hands holding her elbows.

"What if I asked you to stay?" she said softly. "Here. In Camelot?"

He brought his hands up to her face, stroking her cheeks. He leaned in, noses brushing, and kissed her—gently, tenderly, and pressed his forehead to hers. She reached up to his face, eyes closed, and brought his lips to hers. And there they stayed.

Merlin, back in the great hall, stared at the spot Gwen and Lancelot had abandoned, even after Brangene had stepped away. He glanced at Arthur, and found that the Prince was also staring at the empty space of Gwen, of Lancelot, of—

Arthur caught Merlin's eye, then looked into his goblet, watching its contents as he swirled them around. Merlin walked over to stand beside him, and Arthur raised his attention back to the conversation of those around him.

"Well, my love," King Mark said, looking at Sir Balan across the hall, "it looks like you have your champion."

"Do I?" Isolde stared at Mark then looked at Arthur. "I don't think we should discount the Prince's advice."

Arthur looked to her, confused.

"You mean the farmer with delusions of grandeur?" said Mark, garnering a completely different look from Arthur.

"No," Isolde said, "I mean Sir Tristan—you believe he threw the fight?" she turned to Arthur.

"I think both Tristan and Balan make good knights, and will make excellent bodyguards."

"But you think Tristan superior?" Isolde pressed, though Arthur remained uncommitted.

"Sir Tristan would rather be a minstrel by the roadside, earning coin for a tune." Mark said.

"Then he can double his pay and entertain me, as well as protect me."

"My love, there was an understanding that the winner—"

"There was a presumption, that's not an understanding. I will have none but the best."

"We'll discuss this later," Mark said—as if she were a child—and went to talk to Uther.

"Perhaps it's better this way," Brangene said, stroking Isolde's arm and looking at Balan.

* * *

Nathaniel, Sir Roricke's mysterious squire was scheduled to be executed first thing in the morning. Guards escorted him to the chopping block, which stood on an elevated platform, a stage in the middle of the square. From the balcony, Uther recited the charges and reiterated the judgment. Throughout, Nathaniel stood stoic, as if not hearing a word out of Uther's mouth. Instead, he stared at Arthur, who stood with other guards in front of the on-looking crowd.

Merlin stood next to Arthur, mistrusting the intention—the intentness—of Nathaniel's gaze. But there was no malice in his eyes, no hate, no sorrow, no regret. Arthur stared back, and Merlin tried to identify the expression in his eyes: resignation? Duty, perhaps? Arthur's face seemed to match Nathaniel's—no malice, no hate, no sorrow—but regret?—staring at the condemned man full of silence.

The ax fell and Nathaniel's head toppled down onto the stage.

A woman screamed—or a man, potentially a child. Arthur drew his sword and looked around for the source, expecting perhaps a fellow sorcerer come for Nathaniel.

But then the ground shook, and a voice roared—summoned, _King Mark!_

Uther looked toward the gates of Camelot, and from his vantage point saw two heads peering over the parapet. A voice shouted _Giants!_ Arthur ran forward, towards them, Lancelot, close behind.

"Well this is random," Tristan ran up beside Arthur and Lancelot.

"Welcome to Camelot," Lancelot retorted.

"So you're staying, then?" Arthur ran up some stairs.

"I haven't decided yet."

"You two want to sort this out later so we can sort _this _out now?" Tristan was last of the three on the parapet. They—and some dozen knights already up there or filling the ranks—covered their ears as the giants again shouted for Mark.

Arthur gave order to take aim—twenty crossbows lifted up to twenty shoulders.

"I have an idea," Tristan said, grabbing Lancelot to follow. The giants began pounding on the outer wall of Camelot, and Arthur shouted _fire!_ Arrows flew—like gnats, and the giants barely noticed.

Merlin, however, had not gone up after Arthur, but had run to the abandoned gates, which no one had bothered closing. He peeked around the corner of the archway, glanced behind him to make sure no one saw—only Gaius noticed him—and then muttered a quiet incantation. The giants looked around as if someone had patted them on the back. Merlin stood confused as Gaius approached him. Reaching out with his right hand, trying to time it with Arthur's next onslaught—he was adding a few spears in with the arrows—Merlin tried another spell, but neither giant was bothered by it.

"Are giants unaffected by magic?" he asked Gaius.

"I'd heard they had defenses—but completely immune?" Gaius's jaw gaped open and he shook his head, looking from Merlin to the giants.

"At least the spears seem to be having some effect," Merlin said. "Wait, where'd Arthur go?"

King Mark, meanwhile, had taken refuge inside the castle with Uther, Isolde, Morgana and the ladies' maids. Uther watched from the window as his people panicked, running for shelter, his knights tried to maintain the fortification, and his son—

Tristan marched up, followed by Lancelot. "King Mark, we need your crown and your robes."

"What for?" Mark asked, but Isolde was already removing them from Mark's body.

"Hopefully to lure the giants away."

"Anything we can do?" Morgana asked.

"I need a screamer."

Outside, Arthur had quit the ramparts and was riding out toward the giants, a lance aimed square at one of their calves—Merlin still watched from the gates, worried, as Arthur had only had time to don his chainmail.

A hit—the lance broke and the giant hopped in pain, shaking the ground. The other one roared, "_MARK!_"

The hobbled giant swung his ax at Arthur, but Arthur evaded. The second giant pounded against the wall, anger fueling every punch, and the walls began to crack. The first giant tried again to strike Arthur with his ax, but the ax paused in mid-air, and then came crashing to the ground as if pulled.

"Seems the ax isn't immune," Merlin smiled at Gaius.

"MERLIN! Don't just stand there—get me another lance!" Arthur shouted while dodging the giant's feet.

"KING MARK IS ESCAPING!" cried a voice. Merlin and Gaius looked up to see Brangene above them, pointing at two riders coming from around the other side of Camelot—riding away. One, dark-haired, wore a crown and King Mark's dark-blue robes.

The giants looked at the two riders. They glanced at the walls of Camelot, and then looked at each other. The knights above took aim, but were not shooting so long as their Prince was below. Arthur looked at the receding riders, looked at the giants, at Brangene, at the giants.

"Merlin!" he shouted again, his eyes wide, finishing the command. He turned to the knights above: "Somebody shut her up," pointing at Brangene.

The giants exchanged a look, and then turned to follow the riders. As soon as Merlin rode up, as many lances as he could reasonably carry on horseback, Arthur followed the giants and the two riders.

They heard the fight through the trees before they saw it, and Arthur couched his lance, ready to rush into the fray—he broke the second lance on the same giant's other calf, bringing it to its knees. Tristan and Lancelot, still on horseback, both sliced at the debilitated giant. Arthur rode around and grabbed another lance from Merlin, taking aim at the standing giant which was trying to grab Tristan from his horse. Arthur failed; the giant succeeded; Lancelot alone fought off the wounded one. As Tristan struggled in the standing giant's grip, gasping for air, Arthur took another run, piercing the giant behind the knee. The giant loosened its hold on Tristan as it winced with pain—enough so that Tristan was able to free his hand, which still held his sword, and cut open its wrists. Deep gashes of blood flowed now from both giants, but it was Lancelot who faltered.

Knocked from his horse, his sword flown from his hand, Lancelot looked up to see the giant, on its knees, raising its hands in a combined fist to pound him into mush.

And then a lance flew into its chest, striking through its heart, poking out its back. Lancelot rolled out of its way as it fell, face-first flat to the ground. He looked up and saw Merlin's guiding hand still reaching out. Lancelot closed his eyes for a second, sighing; Arthur and Tristan were too preoccupied with the other giant to have noticed what had happened—he could hear it. He retrieved his sword, remounted his horse, and grabbed the last lance from Merlin.

Tristan was now on foot, Arthur still on horseback as they attacked the giant with swords. Cuts, gashes, bruises and blood covered the lower half of the giant—its upper body was marred only by the confusion, sadness even on its face. It was growing weaker. Lancelot galloped up, hitting the giant on the side of the knee—it howled in pain, stumbling. Tristan climbed up the tallest tree nearby, while Arthur and Lancelot hacked at the giant, backing him toward Tristan. When close enough, Tristan took a plunged his sword into the back of the giant's neck, deep into its spine. The giant's eyes widened briefly, then it, too, collapsed to the ground dead.

Arthur, sighed, smiled in relief. "Next time," he said as Merlin rode up, "grab spears."

* * *

The following day, word came from a neighboring kingdom that Mark's entire contingent at Tintagel had been killed. According to Tristan and Lancelot, the two giants considered Tintagel theirs and had come after Mark to settle the dispute.

"I guess I don't need a bodyguard anymore, my love," Isolde said to Mark.

"I had no idea there were giants living in Tintagel, my love."

"I still need a bodyguard, in other words."

"It seems Sir Tristan has more than proven himself—tournament victory or no—what do you think?"

"Clever, swift, strong—I suppose he'll do."

* * *

"So much for staying out of trouble," Lancelot sat down next to Tristan, and they watched Queen Isolde descend the castle steps, Brangene close behind—the Lady Morgana was waiting along with Uther to see off King Mark and his small coterie.

"I'll do my duty by both my King and my Queen." Tristan's face was sober, detached. Before them, Isolde and Morgana clasped hands, kissing each other on each cheek, hugging. Uther and Mark shook hands. "And what about you?" Tristan looked at Lancelot.

"The Code of Camelot stands—I have no place here, though I wish I did."

"Prince Arthur seems to be looking for something other than a bloodline—I wouldn't dismiss Camelot yet." Tristan smiled, standing. He mounted his nearby horse and bowed his head to Lancelot. "Until we meet again," and then he trotted up alongside King Mark and Queen Isolde, remaining slightly ahead as they rode out the gates of Camelot and on to the ruins of Tintagel that Mark was determined to rebuild.

"Well, Lancelot," Arthur's voice approached from behind him, "I suppose we have to find you a nice comfortable cell in the dungeon now." Arthur sat down, and they both watched the King's party—Uther, Gaius, Morgana, Gwen, a few other servants—loiter outside the castle steps.

"Are you sure you want me to stay?" Lancelot stared at Guinevere. "It would be easier for you if I left."

"Secure in the knowledge that I'm a consolation prize?" Arthur snapped. Lancelot recoiled and Arthur softened, "easy isn't the same as right."

They watched as Gwen and Morgana retreated into the castle.

"She deserves the best," Lancelot said.

"She deserves to have what she truly wants," Arthur replied. "And so do you, Lancelot—you do still want to be a knight? You've more than earned it—yes, I'm sure I want you to stay."

Lancelot smiled to himself. "Then I shall return."

Arthur rolled his eyes as Lancelot stood. "Lancelot—"

"I've heard rumors of thieves to the south," Lancelot said, bowing to Arthur.

"Rumors? Really?" Arthur looked up at Lancelot, and sighed. "Well then, somebody ought to go do something about that."

"Yes, my Lord," Lancelot smiled and bowed again, leaving Arthur sitting on the steps until Merlin came to fetch him.

* * *

On her table that night, Guinevere found a small flower on top of a note. As she read, a soft smile lightened her face; she sighed and tucked the note away for safekeeping.

Morgana meanwhile, sat beside a cluster of candles, composing a note—a crumpled bit of parchment tucked into her hand.

_-end-_


End file.
